The Persian's Narrative Concluded
by Kittie Darkhart
Summary: Many claim to know the true story of the Opéra Ghost and his love affair with Christine Daaé—or, at least, believe they know—though none truly do, save for the sole survivor who so often faced Erik's wrath and lived to tell it. A tribute to the daroga.


Disclaimer: I do not own _The Phantom of the Opera_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and their respected owners.

Summary: Many claim to know the true story of the Opéra ghost and his love affair with Christine Daaé—or, at least, believe they know—though none truly do, save for the sole survivor who faced Erik and lived to tell it. A tribute to the daroga.

The Persian's Narrative Concluded

"_It was the hand of the Phantom of the Opéra." And even that had been written with a trace of irony. Only the Persian, to whom no one would listen and who did not, after Erik's visit, try to approach the police again…only the Persian knew the truth. And he had in his possession the principal evidence that had come to him with the pious relics the Phantom had promised him."_ – The journalist's account of the _daroga_, from the Leonard Wolf translation of Gaston Leroux's _The Phantom of the Opéra_, Epilogue.

…

"_And that is all you know o__f the matter?" a young portly man of about forty once asked of him. "Nothing more than what you have told or given me, _monsieur_?"_

The idle question the inquisitive man who, dressed fashionably in a modest brown suit—Parisian in fashion, certainly—posed still loomed within his ancient mind as a slow, stifled breath escaped him. Eyes, the colour of the darkest jade stared, almost forlornly, at the pale, ivory ceiling, the shadows cast upon the fading paint dancing to a soundless ebony nocturne from the world without. He frowned at the shadows—ghostly in their transitory apparition—and timidly glanced at the window, seeing only darkness beyond its cracked glass panes.

The day had finally descended into a starless veil of night; and with the darkness' grave ascent came the dire understanding of an absent dawn—which he had, almost every day, readily praised for its sanctifying light—was still far beyond its dark horizon. It would be the final dawn, then. For the light he so greatly sought would no longer comfort him with its purifying rays, for he would not live long enough to see it…

A sigh, aged and broken by the passing of a single lifetime fell away from his withered lips, the onslaught of an ever-present pain that had seized his chest lessening as his feeble strength returned, if only briefly. It was a fleeting pain, but was no less condemning in its purpose to torment him in his old age. For with age, he realised, came both pain and wisdom, the latter of the two always prevailing over the fleeting pleasures of an impressionable youth that abandoned the soul, when it became caged in an inert state of unwilling suspension.

He quietly reflected upon the irony of his condition. For the better part of seventy years, he felt that this minute ache within his heart was somewhat…liberating. As his years before falling into the shell of a dying man had marked only a testimony to what he truly endured during those wondrous days of terror and intrigue, where death was the final absolution of the sins he willingly bore for those long since passed from the indifferent hand of history.

It was with this most reflective thought—though surely trivial, in some respects—in mind, he smiled, for the first time since his last confession…

…

"_It is an honour, _monsieur_, a true honour to finally meet you," the young man said upon greeting, his dark, spectacled eyes filled with an indefinable, heady excitement. "I am the reporter from the local paper—the one who wrote to you last week."_

_A wan smile considered the young man's words. "Oh, yes, I recall that you wished to seek an audience with me concerning an old case of mine?" He enquired, as he—the man simply known to many as the Persian—allowed the question to hang between them._

_The larger man quietly nodded, and had the grace to look down, diffident in his otherwise composed expression. _

_The Persian's faithful servant, Darius, had appeared then, a tea tray and desserts—both of Eastern and Western origin—in hand. The servant, surely now as old as his master, briefly considered the interloper he had shown in earlier, before nodding to the Persian as he, without another without, took his leave._

_The journalist shook his head in silence, surely having felt himself made unwelcome by the servant's cool demeanour, the hot teacup in his hand doing nothing to absolve his affront. And yet, an apologetic look from the Persian himself compelled him to set aside the servant's dislike as he finally returned his companion's insightful gaze, those jade-green eyes—still as lively as the had surely been in the height of the days of this man's youth—bidding him to continue. Again, he hesitated, though not for long. "Yes," he finally began; a pencil and paper suddenly coming to hand. "I…was hoping that you could, perhaps, discuss a few details concerning one from around thirty years ago. I realise that you worked on the case, and that you had some prior knowledge concerning a certain…_Phantom_, if you will." He gave pause then, his expression bordering upon a mild curiosity that quickly shifted into one of true concern as he watched the Persian pale slightly. "_Monsieur_, are you…"_

"Phantom_?" the older man intoned gravely, his solemn expression marked heavily upon his worn face. _

"_Yes," the reporter replied, his concern failing to shatter an unbreakable wall of disbelief that had centred itself upon the Persian's haunted visage. "I was wondering if the rumours of the Opéra ghost and the infamous fall of the chandelier were true. I find myself being laughed at by the former managers, in their notes concerning the whole affair," he added dryly._

_Green eyes stared at the corpulent writer, as the dark intensity within the verdant depths rendered the man silent, the meaningless prattle abandoned by the cold gravity within their hollow gaze. "I am sure _Messieurs_ Richard and Moncharim were indeed, quite oblivious to the truth about the mysterious O.G.," he muttered, as if slightly amused. "As I recall, he managed to procure a salary of twenty thousand francs each month from them."_

_The younger man gaped at him. "You mean to say that they were not jesting about the twenty thousand francs going amiss? I had found it to be some private joke on their part—most especially about the safety pin." He shook his dark head in utter amazement. "But they always said that the money was returned…"_

_The __Persian inclined his greying head forward in agreement. "And so it was, _monsieur_. Every last franc was returned to the possession of the managers."_

"_But still…" the reporter ventured. "I cannot find that to validate anything other than a mere misunderstanding, brought on by the absentmindedness of two managers, who, from my understanding, were quite new to the possession of an opéra house." He placed a tired hand to his aching temples and rubbed them, his spectacles becoming slightly ajar as he did so. He almost muttered a curse, his weary gaze falling once again upon an ever-patient Persian. "I suppose you could somehow assure me of the truth."_

_The Persian, who had remained silent as his lively interrogator initiated the conversation, frowned slightly, his eyes jaded by the onslaught of painful memories that now surged through his mind. He glanced at the man before him, and faintly sighed. It was time, he supposed, time to finally lay some ghosts to rest._

"_Very well," he said, suddenly very weary by the tumult of emotional strain. "I shall tell you what I know, including the death of the notable le Comte de Chagny, the disappearance of his brother, and Christine Daaé's final night on stage." He paused for only a moment, but concluded with, "And also, the most important factor of your questioning…the infamous Opéra ghost himself, the one who haunts those of us from that damning time still."_

_The Persian closed his eyes, his head slightly tilting forward—that age-old weariness of his soul moving to the fore with each staggered breath. "I shall come to the Opéra presently," he calmly assured. "But first, allow me to begin with how I came to _be_ in this godforsaken country." The Persian's eyes smouldered with an old, refined hatred, which seemed to burn brilliantly within them after his exodus from his native land._

"_I was once a _daroga_—a chief head of the Persian police—who worked primarily for the Shah of Persia at that time. It was my sole duty to obey my sovereign, no matter the cause or consequence of the actions derived from it. And I did so, without question or thought of the morality behind my actions. It seems that the Rosy Hours of Mazenderan were indeed the most memorable times of my life…" he reflected bitterly, the dire sarcasm in his words making the other shift uncomfortably in his seat. "But the story of the Opéra ghost, or _phantom_, as you call him, does not begin here. It truly begins over seventy years ago, in a town not too far Rouen…_

_The former _daroga_ closed his eyes at the painful memory, his wrinkled, sun-spotted hands clasping the empty shell of his tea cup in unspoken dismay. The bitter reminder of that night from so many years ago still haunted him as if it had only occurred the previous night._

_Though in__ spite of his momentary reluctance, he could not delay, nor disregard this young man's presence here. The truth; or rather, the actual account made _him_ the only surviving member from that night, had to be told in all of its hideous wonder. The time for secreting the abysmal tale of a man's obsession turning to utter madness had to at last be confessed. It would finally free him from the shameful prison of his own guilt. _

_And so he stared at the man, that journalist's hungry dark gaze eager for a story. Oh, yes, his impatient visitor would have a story, all right. And ironically enough, it would no longer be his burden to bear. This young, aspiring journalist would have to bear the concrete weight of it. He almost smiled at the thought, for the first time in what seemed a century. It was truly time..._

"_His real name, _monsieur_, was Erik…" _

…

And so it had begun—the strange relationship forged between the journalist and his _raconteur_ through one common bond: Erik. The Persian vaguely smiled, when he recalled those idle hours of endless discussion, which had spanned into a countless throe of eternity. Every question the inquisitive reporter asked, every minute detail regarding the disappearance of the Vicomte de Chagny—turned comte after his brother's reported demise—and Christine Daaé was answered by the unreserved grace of the one who knew all.

Even now, the Persian could not admit any knowledge of the affair was kept privy from the journalist. In truth, he confessed everything that his correspondent needed to know. With the papers and personal items he had kept in trust for almost thirty years—the lost possessions of the illustrious Christine Daaé—would only counter the journalist's mounting reservations of proving an opéra rat's superstition. No longer could the younger man doubt the truth behind what had transpired the night that Christine Daaé had vanished, where even the respectable _Monsieur_ Fraure could not admit the whole truth of the matter.

The former manager, _Monsieur _Poligny, which the Persian had suggested the aspiring journalist to seek answers from, could only attest to the demands made of him through the infamous red-inked notes written in their childish scrawl. Poligny had no idea what true demon had plagued him, or even had the faintest notion that he had been deceived for so many years, as it seemed that most were the same along the lines of rational thought, for they obtained very little of it. With the exception of one, however…

The Persian shook his head at the thought, recalling how such brilliantly insane genius could, at times, have the mind of a child. And yet, the man known as the Lover of Trapdoors was certainly many things. God only knew what idle madness brewed within that crazed mind; the desire to obtain and make a _prima_ _donna_ his bride was, certainly, beyond all recall.

And yet, as the absurdity of the crazed whims of a madman furthered into the depths of the Persian's thoughts, he found that his once-friend-turned-adversary only wished to be normal, to be counted among the race of men, if only through the bonds that innately tied him to another. Christine.

That very name caused the Persian to shudder, the wretched memory of her leaving him paralyzed by the fear of a memory, long since buried. He shook his head, that once-handsome face contorting into a mask of pain, those deep-set lines framing his lips and eyes revealing a map of despair, where the remnants of a lovely torture chamber of mirrors and the long hours that had passed into a bleak eternity of a handful of hours had not fully abandoned him to his misery.

Christine's song still had haunted his mind even now. That delightful siren, which Erik created, had mastered a voice that was so utterly divine that no other could overshadow such wonder. Even the former _prima_ _donna_, the renowned La Carlotta, could never eclipse the sheer beauty in which Christine imparted. She would have the whole of Paris upon its knees, crying out praises of complete rapture, had she only remained at the Opéra. Even kings and pawns would fall on bended knee, to hear the lovely call of one instructed by the Angel of Music.

Angel of Music…

The Persian inwardly balked at the title. Erik was many things, but an angelic being, sent from the heavens he was not. An Angel of Death, perhaps. But not one created by the Divine. Only Hell itself could spawn such a damning entity, and release it upon an ignorant world.

He slightly amended himself. Erik was not wholly evil, but nor did he attain the compassion that every man was with which—as such was believed by his old friend's Christian faith—intrinsically instilled. Erik had no pity for the weak and helpless. Nor for those who cried out to him. The poor _concierge_ did not even foresee her impending doom, when she watched her last and only performance at the Opéra as the chandelier fell upon her. Even the Comte de Chagny had no idea that death awaited him in the cellars, when he quickly, and quite naturally, fell into the lake.

A deep, congested sigh escaped the Persian then. So many lives had been shattered, destroyed by a man—creature—wronged by those who fell to his unattainable mercy. And it was the same unattainable mercy in which _he_ had been denied.

No, the former _daroga_ concluded. Erik was not evil. No man who suffered the pain and agony of living in a world of complete darkness could ever be condemned for his crimes as he fought an eternal battle within his own, tortured mind; for it appeared that Erik had fought on two fronts: one from the cruelty of others and one from himself.

There was no surprise when his sole redemption came in the form of a child almost thirty years his junior. Christine Daaé, the lovely maiden who inspired the only scrap of humanity within a monster, had come into the miserable man's life like a shooting star sent from the heavens. She had given him the only true happiness he could have ever wanted: her childlike acceptance of the horrid monstrosity of a _man_ _who_ _adored_ _her_. And in turn, he gave her the freedom she so desperately desired.

But despite this one, selfless act, Erik had condemned himself to death. For no longer would he feel the joys of simply being, or bask in the glorious light of the radiant sun. No, he had tasted the fruits Heaven had offered him in that one, singular kiss he imparted on his beloved's forehead. There was no more to life than that final moment shared between them. Even Heaven itself seemed to reside on Earth that night and for those that followed it…

Until, three weeks later, the inevitable title in _L'Epoque_ stated in bold black print:

_Erik is dead._

The Persian placed his weary head against the worn high-back chair, his brilliant jade-green eyes partially closing as the remnants of thirty years fell away from his mind. He would no longer recall the grief—and perhaps, if he tried to forget his partial shame—of it all, since he would no longer be troubled by _what could have been_, had the impassioned Christine not turned the scorpion.

In spite of this almost-idyllic notion, however, his _pain_ would have ended that night, instead of lingering on in this pointless realm of existence. Erik and Christine would always haunt his mind, their fates intertwined by the significant bond that had united them. And strangely, even he could, even now, see that, no matter what circumstances separated them—even the greatest of dividers, Death himself—could not part them; for Erik would _always_ have his Christine, in one form or another.

But it was this one condemning truth that he omitted from the journalist's inquiry. He had confessed _everything_, and had even given the man the possessions and letters that once belonged to Christine Daaé—the ones in which Erik had prized above all else—and also the details of how an _Angel_ had once saved him from the shah's wrath by carefully concealing the evidence that convicted his opposing views of something, perhaps even greater than the shah himself.

A tired sigh escaped him then, as he recalled the sudden note of surprise on the journalist's face, when he admitted his small intrigue of the famed Angel of Music_,_ and how he had managed to survive a personal ordeal regarding his own secrets, which had been long buried in Persia. As such secrets…would have surely opposed the most powerful man in the East; for had it not been for Erik, the Persian would have been shamed and stripped of his position, as he would die a traitor's death; and it seemed that, in the form of the shah's highly-regarded executioner, had lain the hidden, divine hand of his God. Through Erik, he had been shown mercy from One that had created that lenient hand.

Even now, the Persian knew his death could come as swiftly as the executioner's axe if his benefactors realised the truth. But it no longer mattered; he had willingly confided in the dumbfounded journalist his own secret of Erik's continued existence after Persia, at last confessing it for all—most especially those who still considered an enemy, albeit a dead one—to know.

Though in spite of his generosity in imparting the truth, he did not relinquish the one truth to the intrigued journalist: his own opinion of the matter between the famed Opéra ghost and the still-missing _prima_ _donna_.

For where it was true that he did not see Erik _after_ that night, when the broken man left his apartment, he felt that the corpse that had been unearthed by the excavation team was not the man who tormented the lives of his fellow countrymen. No, Erik would not accept death so easily—not when he felt the singular love that Christine left him with that night.

In his heart, the Persian felt that the story of the illustrious _Phantom_ did not end in the cellars of the Opéra, but extended into the far reaches of the world.

He closed his eyes then, where vivid imaginings of a Persian sun inundated his woebegone thoughts. The sun burned brilliantly as it faded beneath the dark horizon of the Black Sea, the merciless ebony waves crashing against the saltine shores as the faint traces of a broken song echoed against the fathomless watery depths. The hollow, bitter sound was then joined by one lighter, more feminine—a mortal, undoubtedly, with an angel's voice. The song twisted, however, descending into the last strands of the dying sunset, and into eternity itself.

A faint, transient smile embedded itself on his pale lips as he considered this. There was no doubt in his mind that Erik did not perish in the cellars of the Opéra, nor did he feel that Christine had actually joined the young de Chagny, in leaving for the Northern railway station of the world, but instead the young pair of lovers had parted ways somehow, each promising the other to be happy in turn as both forgot everything that had passed between them.

The Persian shook his head, for such were the fancies of a wistful romantic, as his beliefs—fanciful or not—on the matter, however, were unfounded, as he had no evidence to validate his outrageous beliefs, as he only harboured a fool's innate hope that somehow, Erik had found happiness at last, even if it was only in death.

And yet, his disbelief in Erik's alleged demise never ceased. In truth, he believed Erik to be almost like a ghost in some ways; and with that immortality brought an inordinate desire of possessing the one thing for which he longed most, the one earthly possession that truly made him happy: a lovely, timid child from the dark, wintry lands of the North.

The Persian silently reprimanded himself. The matter itself was of little consequence now. His part in Erik's tragedy had ended on that horrible night, thirty years ago. And no longer would he hold himself accountable for the lives of the young de Chagny and _Mademoiselle_ Daaé. Whatever lives they drew for themselves were of their own choice, just as he chose to reside in his old flat until death mercifully came to claim him…

His pain lessened then, and his breathing became lighter, fainter in the gathering shadows. His shoulders sagged as the years of age dominated them, and cast a longing glance toward the window, the darkness from without becoming fainter as the approaching dawn ascended from its momentary _death_. The sun would soon come, and with it, the light.

The Persian's fragile smile widened as the invisible rays of the sun penetrated the dark panes, falling blissfully against his face. He quietly whispered a prayer in his native tongue, and his arms fell away from the worn confines of the chair. No longer did the pain in his chest plague him, as it had for the past year. And though he saw through shadowy veil that obscured life from death, he finally found the answer to his question: the cruel, bitter understanding of what it was to finally _feel_…the light.

Upon this, he briefly considered his servant, the ever-faithful Darius, finding him dead. He realised that the old manservant would bemoan his death, but would eventually overcome the loss, seeing as his master had given everything to him. He had left nothing undone, and strangely, held no regrets for the life he had chosen to lead.

He dwelt upon these last, few moments of earthly life, and his eyes closed for a final time, never to open or welcome the light again, the last of his lingering thoughts remaining upon the constant vision of a masked man who, by his hauntingly angelic voice, sang a tragically beautiful requiem, his fair bride—whose beauty had not been touched by the wearing hands of time—joining in the burning strains of the _Dies Irae._ They sang this, for him, by the desolate shores of his fading memory.

…

**Author's Note: ****I have to confess that this was written well over four years ago, way back in the Fall of 2005. I realise that this could have been handled better, and could have been longer and more descriptive, but I am content with the way it turned out. I **_**finally**_** have something written about one of the most intriguing—and sadly, one of the most obscure—figures in **_**The Phantom of the Opéra.**_** I truly wanted to give the man who saved Erik's life, so long ago, tribute, since he is, overall, one of my favourite characters in the novel. **

**To be honest, ****I admire the **_**daroga**_**, as I truly believe that he is among of those few, special people in the world, who tries to do what he believes is right, even if it hurts others in the process. I somewhat regretted to have him die at the end; but since Monsieur. Leroux slated him to in the Epilogue of the original novel, I had to remain true to his work, despite my grief in letting the **_**daroga**_** die. But at least he had a 'requiem mass', even if it was just his imagination—though whether or not Erik and Christine truly sang it to him, I leave that up to everyone's discretion.**

**The Persian's secret, which was vaguely mentioned close to the end, is something left open entirely to interpretation, since we really do not know the reason behind the **_**daroga**_** feeling himself indebted to Erik. Monsieur Leroux left such vague, as I feel the same, since I think it best for everyone to draw conclusions of their own over such. It is much more interesting that way, too! ;)**

**But truly, this story should have been posted a long time before today. And yet, I am glad it is today; I have long wanted to post it. I do hope everyone enjoyed this, even though it is something I had written a long time ago. **


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